


Pragma

by Gallahad



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls III
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-27 18:04:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16224449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gallahad/pseuds/Gallahad
Summary: There is more to the Nameless King's Stormdrake than what meets the eyes.Or the story of Ornstein after he reunites with his king.





	Pragma

**Author's Note:**

> So, I watched those theory videos about Ornstein turning into a dragon for NK, and I knew I had to do something with it.

When Ornstein, former Dragon Slayer and Captain of the Four Knights of Gwyn, finally reaches his destination, it feels like the sun is rising for the first time in centuries.

Amongst ruins of stones and howling winds, he stands there, finally unmovable after months, years, decades of walking. Of desperate travels. The sight that lays before him is the most magnificent he has ever witnessed. Not for the sky so blue it could swallow him, nor for the peaceful feeling of being on the very peak of the world. But for the man that sits before him, crossed legged on the harsh ground. So much like how he remembered, yet so different.

Mighty mountains and destroyed kingdoms. Realms of fire and darkness. The bowels of this earth and its lonely lands. Ornstein had searched them all, in the meager hope to find him. His king. His liege. His friend.

And now. Now that he has found him. Now that his goal lays so very close to himself, he finds that he cannot take a single step further.

The tired knight wants to kneel before his lord. Apologize and beg for understanding and forgiveness. For abandoning his duties and disobeying orders from so long ago. But instead, he stays motionless, his voice feeling like thorns in his throat and his mind going blank. His hand, always an iron grip on his spear when slaying his preys, is now trembling lightly — in either fear of punishment or anticipation, he himself does not know.

And in the end, it does not matter, for when Gwyn's Firstborn finally acknowledges his presence and casts his eyes upon him, the lion knight knows he is right where he was supposed to be from the very beginning. The rest mattered none. Deep inside his soul, he knows it has never mattered at all.

"You have wandered far from your home, knight."

The now Nameless King rises, looking less like a warmongering prince of the Sun and more like the wise, steady warrior his mighty father ironically wanted him to be all those years ago. But Ornstein can still feel it. The fire that burns in his long-lost master's soul. As incandescent as the First Flame, if only slightly wearier. For him, whose travels were plagued by the dread of, someday, finding nothing else but a cold corpse at the end of his journey, it is enough.

It is then that Ornstein finally snaps back to his senses. In deference, he starts lowering his head, eyes transfixed to the irregular stone path behind his leonine helmet. Yet he is stopped in his tracks when a hand settles on his shoulder. The gesture is not one of authority nor command, but of a forgotten, intimate friendship that was valued above anything else.

He knows it is not possible, but Ornstein has the impression his skin can feel the heat of this hand through his unclean, dusty golden armor.

"It took you a long time to find me." the King says, and when he pulls him into an embrace of reunion and silent apologies, Ornstein finally let go of his weapon.

The sound it makes when it falls to the ground is deafening, carried away by the strong winds of Archdragon Peak.

 

—

 

"When I first saw you appear before me," the God of War starts several days later while looking toward the soaring wyverns in the high sky, "I thought you were nothing but a mere illusion from the past."

At the admission, Ornstein stops the cleaning of his armor to raise a curious glance at the King.

But the exiled prince does not seem inclined to share much more without being prompted. He stares at the sky some more, his mind lost in places his knight cannot even fathom, before turning to the baby drake he was tending to. (baby almost twice his size already. Ornstein wonders with amazement how grand and fearsome it would be, once fully grown)

"An illusion, my Lord?" Ornstein tries. Since he had arrived here, few words were exchanged. The comfortable silence between them was enough, and talking was harboring the risk of asking the wrong questions. Reminisce the wrong memories.

That, and the Nameless King has been especially secretive of everything about himself — every time the lion knight had tried to ask anything related to the Dragons or his life in exile, he was met by nothing but a silence dripping with sadness or a change of subject. It is the first time his liege starts such a conversation on his own volition. Ornstein does not wish for it to stop already. He wants to know. Know how his king's existence was here before their reunion, with nobody of his own kind. Branded a traitor and erased from memories.

Finally, he answers, without looking his way.

"It has happened, then and now. Simple remnants, nothing more." A pause. "I saw my father this way. Long after he linked the Flame."

He does not elaborate, his attention on the creature. It seems strangely tame in the King's presence, an occurrence Ornstein would have never thought he would witness someday. He realizes the trust his lord has built with the descendants of the dragons since his departure from Anor Londo.

However, this sense of respect and friendship does not apply to himself. It was by no mean a surprise. The dragon-kind is made of sage, cunning and everlasting entities who never forget any injury done to their own. And Ornstein was called the Dragon Slayer for a reason. They knew his name and how his armor shined on the battlefield, a flash of gold and red. They knew how deadly his spear was, and how many of them he has killed under Gwyn's service.

Yet, as he watches his friend and the young drake from where he sits, a fair distance from them, (they never tried to harm him since his arrival, no doubt as a token of friendship toward the Nameless King, but Ornstein is not stupid and has enough sense of preservation to stay afar from them anyway) he wonders why he hated them so much in the first place.

Maybe he never truly hated them. Maybe it was just because he was good at killing fire-spitting beings that were four or five times his size and did not bother thinking about anything else than his duties. Maybe it was ignorance.

It is a sobering thought, and he wonders why the exiled god allowed him to stay here.

From afar, he sees the Nameless King patting the creature's flank lightly before it takes flight, joining its pairs amongst the clouds. The small smile on his face fades slowly before he turns toward Ornstein.

When he joins him, the knight lowers his eyes, busying himself with the dirt and the dark dry blood stuck in the nooks and crannies of the armor that was once his biggest pride.

"Then pray tell, at that time, did you not think it would have been best if I were indeed an illusion?" He does not dare to look up, even less so when he feels the body that just sat next to him tensing up ever so slightly.

They both know what the answer is. Because even if Ornstein would choose death over abandoning his loyalty for his liege a second time, he is fully aware that his presence opens forgotten wounds in the other's mind.

Yet, the Nameless King has the kindness not to say it aloud. That is new, Ornstein notes. Because while Gwyn's Firstborn never lacked kindness, he used to speak without embarrassing himself with this kind of restraint.

"Even so," he starts, and his voice is so gentle that it makes Ornstein looks back in wonder, "I am grateful to have you here."

The knight looks down again with a non-committal sound that feels like an aborted laugh. The gold metal in his hands returns his reflexion, and he is surprised to see his own smile on it.

"Surely you jest."

But the other man's tone is a serious one when he answers. "I do not. I missed you dearly, Ornstein."

 _I missed you too. So much it hurts,_ he wants to reply. But he stays silent.

 

—

 

Ornstein quickly found out how cold the nights are on the Peak.

When he pointed out the fact to the King, the other man merely laughed with what was the first genuine expression of joy the knight had seen from him in a very long time.

The day after, a bundle of clothes appeared on the bed of the chamber he had claimed as his. It was made of thick and rough materials. Of leathers and furs. It was warmer than gold. So every night he spent just exploring the silent dragon shrine, he wore them instead of his metal plates.

He does not sleep a lot. Never has. Being made for war and battles has conditioned his body to work with the barest minimum of rest. Even in this dragonless age, where his talents were now without use anymore, the habit stayed. It was still a dangerous, ruthless world after all. Undead's Curse and beasts everywhere. Lurking Abyss and Dark hovering over their weakening Age of Fire.

And yet, at that very moment, it is hard to remember any of this as he wanders without purpose amidst the ancient ruins. Nighttime here is even more serene than the day. Wyverns are asleep, and even the wind seems quieter. And when Ornstein looks at the horizon, trying to spot any other sign of civilization, he sees nothing other than a sea of clouds far below Archdragon Peak, and the moon casting its frozen light onto it. It is as if nothing else in the world exists.

It feels a little like they are all alone. The last remains on this earth. Even if he knows well it is not the case.

It is a different kind of solitude than the one Ornstein felt when he was guarding Anor Londo. Back then, it has been cold and empty, with a merciless cannibal for sole company, and a city full of illusions under his watch.

From a mighty warrior fighting alongside his awe-inspiring lord as equals, to a lone sentinel in a palace of lies and fake sunlight. The fall had been harsh back then.

There was a time when Ornstein had hated his prince for that. A hatred he never wanted to acknowledge and tried to bury deep inside his heart, locked under key beside many others feelings he never allowed himself to recognize. He never hated him for his treason — albeit it took years, and a slowly decaying kingdom to understand why he betrayed family and companions alike. He never hated him either for his own decline, because that was simply how things were in a world without war and slowly succumbing to the dark curse.

But he did hate his prince for leaving him behind, bound by a final order that became meaningless as soon as the poor Gwyndolin became the only deity left in the holy city.

The lion knight remembers. He remembers the long, torturous nights, where not a sound could be heard in the whole palace, as he was alone and resentful. He never wanted to feel this way, filling instead his mind with the slaying of all the poor Chosen Ones who dared to set a foot in the abandoned domain.

He wipes a hand over his face and sighs deeply, trying to make the thought go away.

 _I hated you as much as I loved you,_ the knight silently admits to the bright moon.

He stays here a while, his eyes lost to the skyline and his heart a little less heavy. The clothes are a friendly warmth on his skin.

 

—

 

The Nameless King has the habit of meditating now, it seems. Sometimes, Ornstein joins him, for he discovered that it would greatly help him and his rampant and tired mind. But more often than not, he has the preference of settling near him to read the scarce scrolls still intact in the only room that could loosely be described as a library.

Almost all of them talk about the Path of the Dragons.

Rare men-serpents wandered the ruins, apparent failures of devotees trying to reach the transformation into dragons. They stay far away from them both, probably in fear and reverence of the one that was known to be the best ally of the ancient dragons.

Sitting against the stone wall, across from the other, Ornstein is lost deep in thought, as silence and sunlight embrace the temple. Without realizing it, he stares at his liege. Several rays of light shine through a hole in the room, and one of them gently touches the contemplating king, as particles of dust and sand gleam and flutter lazily around.

Gwyn's Firstborn's statues were grandiose and commanding. The representation of warfare itself.

Here, motionless under the light, he also looks like a statue of sort. An ancient, undisturbed one, a far cry from what he was in the past.

The sight is soothing.

But, Ornstein ponders, even if the Nameless King has gained in temperance, he is still a warrior. He still has to fight.

His hand tightens on the scroll.

"I can hear your thoughts from here, Ornstein."

The sudden voice startles him, and he looks down, "My apologies, I was—" but he has no idea how to end that sentence. There is the sound of shifting clothes, and from the corner of his eye, the lion knight notice that the King has interrupted his meditation for a more casual pose. He stretches out his legs, no doubt sore after hours of immobility, and flashes a smile that is not too far from a grin.

"Do not fret, my friend. I know well you have the tendency to over-think."

"That... Might be true." The only thing keeping him from grinning in return is the sense of self-embarrassment he feels. Before, the Firstborn always liked to playfully tease him on his shortcomings. in retaliation, Ornstein would remind him about any uncomfortable and awkward moments his friend had ashamed himself in their youth.

"Of course it is," he chuckles. "Will you tell me what is on your mind?"

"I was wondering..." Ornstein stops, unsure."...What did you find in the Path of the Dragon, what answers did you seek, that it would make you discard everything you had?"

He expects the King to get angry and evasive. He does not.

Instead, he tells him everything.

About all the ways Gwyn was wrong and foolish. About how the Age of Dark was nothing to fear, and how Dragons never wanted the war to begin with. He tells him about his life with dragons, and how they accepted him over time. He tells tales of his battles with them. Admits the losses he suffered. The understanding he gained of the world and its endless circle of Dark and Flame.

He confesses that he likes flying in the high sky on the back of a drake, and how he thinks he is going to die on the battlefield, even if the war is no more and the life at Archdragon Peak is tranquil — because there is so much more to fight for, to protect, he says.

He also asks his own questions to Ornstein. About his siblings and their fates, mostly, and about the other Knights of Gwyn. Ornstein discovers that talking about it all does not sadden him as much as it used to. And that, in itself, is the saddest thing of all.

So they talk, and talk, and address silent prayers to the souls of the ones they left behind. Gwynewere and Gwyndolin. Artorias and Ciaran. Filianore. Gough. And so many more.

At one point, they get closer to one another, without really being aware of it. Ornstein does not wear his armor — he almost never did, these days — so he can feel it when the Firstborn's fingers lightly brush against his hand.

Despite everything they voice, there is one idea the knight do not talk about.

 

—

 

"You do not have to do that."

Ornstein turns toward his friend. What he sees in those golden eyes makes him smile gently. There is acceptance, as if he knew Ornstein already did his choice and would never back off from it. But there is also a subtle, frantic worry. Maybe even guilt. But on this one the ex-knight hopes he is wrong.

"Indeed, I do not."

The Nameless King puts back the scroll on the table. "Why such a decision?" he asks simply, his voice a model of careful neutrality.

 _Why._ Like the answer is not as apparent as the sun in the sky.

Ornstein looks at the fireplace, burning and cracking gently, then at the spear sitting on his laps. Once a feared weapon he considered as important as his own life. Now a memento he was ready to abandon without a second thought. It feels heavier than he remembers.

"I wish to serve you again. If following the Path of the Dragons is the only way to do as such, so be it."

"Dragons, drakes or wyverns, I do not command them. They do not serve me. They are allies."

"Then," Ornstein tries again, because he knows the Nameless King understand fully what he means exactly, "let me fight alongside you once again. As allies."

The deity lets a curt noise of frustration out of his mouth and says nothing for a while. It is apparent he has no rebuttal.

Ornstein is a loyal soul, dedicated to following orders and rules. But the lion was his symbol for a reason. Under his sense of leadership and his fairness, pride and stubbornness was also something he was famous for, back in Gwyn's days. He is not going to change his mind. There is as much resolution burning in his eyes than there is compliance in the way the King sighs.

He sits abruptly beside the knight and bumps lightly their shoulders together. For a brief moment, it feels like they are those young, brash warriors again, used to share rations on the battlefield — him nothing more than a new recruit of the silver knights, and the other without his title of God of War yet.

"Is it not the pinnacle of irony? The best Dragon Slayer abandoning everything to become a dragon himself?" he says as his hand gestures wildly as to illustrate his words. Ornstein can hear in the seemingly light banter the sorrow and pride that clash against each other.

But if anything, he finds it quite fitting. There is a certain poetry to that.

He refrains from saying so.

Instead, he put down the weapon and bumps back once, teasingly.

"I was not the best. Are you not forgetting your own deeds, My Lord? You were—" He cast a glance and a smile to the side and stops himself when he witnesses the frown on the King's face, bends toward the fire, his arms on his crossed legs. There are dancing shadows on his face, and it looks a little like he's hollowing.

It is at that time that the knight fully realizes that the calm expression his king is harboring since his arrival is not one of maturity or wisdom, but of lassitude and loneliness.

"Ornstein."

He nods in recognition. Their sides are still touching. He has half a mind to lean into the contact a little more. To be the pillar and the presence the other man seems in desperate need of.

"When I left," Ornstein's heart tighten at the mention, "I was prepared for everything. Being loathed by my kin and forgotten by anyone else. I knew what would happen, yet I choose this path. I have no regrets for it. However It was—" He closes his eyes for a second, and exhales slowly. "By no mean, it was an easy choice to make."

 _I know._ Because when he thinks about it, he always was the closest to the Firstborn. He was his first knight, his brother in arms and his most loyal friend. So, he knows.

"My effigies were destroyed. Any mention of myself, erased. I never cared for any of that. But you Ornstein..."

He straightens and looks at him in the eyes.

"After all this time. Do you still remember my name?"

"Of course, I do." His voice is low. He does not dare to speak much louder than a murmur. But the exiled prince is close enough to hear everything anyway. The proximity awakens a flow of old memories in the knight. Wants and needs he always kept locked away. A hand slowly finds his hair, and suddenly he remembers the time his friend told him it's looked fierce, like a lion's mane. Another one cups his cheek, and here is the remembrance of that time Ornstein merely got injured here during a training, and the other had forced him to go see the healers, although it has been nothing more than a scratch.

"Then I beg you, Ornstein. Do not address me as your lord anymore." He puts his forehead on his, his eyes closed and his face harboring hurt and apprehension. "For there are no lords left. Only dragons and men."

 _"Faraam."_ Ornstein says, and as soon as it leaves his lips, it is replaced by Faraam's own.

He leans into it like it is not the first time.

 

—

 

"What do you wish me to do with your armor?"

"Leave it here. It is of no use anymore. For anybody."

 

—

 

The transformation into a dragon is like being torn apart.

It takes a long time. So long he does not even remember what it is like, to have a body that is not tearing up his organs and rampaging his brain. Hours or months, it does not matter. For him, it is endless.

At first, his throat feels scorched and hot, as it is on fire, until he realizes it is really fire that licks his insides. Burning, as if his own blood is fuel.

In a strange, passing moment of lucidity, he wonders if it is the same feeling as being sacrificed to the Flame.

His whole body becomes foreign, as bones crack and break and grow. Then his skin tingles with a swarming sensation, like lightning poking a million of holes in it, exposing the flesh under it. The smell of it all is disgusting, amplified by the new senses he is slowly gaining. It is the same stench as when he used to trust his spear between the eyes of a dragon, when the scales got crushed and the muscles under it started to melt at the contact of the power of divine sunlight.

He feels his head splits open, and his skull expanding.

It is worse than any wounds he got on the battlefield.

 _It hurts._ It hurts so much, as everything is moving, being cut open, and put back in place.

Yet, he feels no fear, nor regrets.

 

—

 

Centuries have passed. Maybe more.

It is almost nothing for them.

Battles after battles, they fought together. Archdragon Peak was their kingdom, and with one another, they were rulers of the sky. Until there was no menace left.

Nobody dared to come here anymore. Nobody really knew how nowadays, anyway. For many, the Path of the Dragon was a foolish thing to follow.

 _Years, and years, and years._ Many things happened on this earth. None that would affect them. They were nothing more than a nameless king and his stormdrake, alone at the top of the world.

When an unkindled manages their way to them and rings the bell to claim a powerful soul, somehow, they both have that hunch, as if it is the end of something dear.

There is nothing left for them.

The stormdrake's attacks are relentless. A flurry of fire and lightning, as the friend on his back manages to make him dodge the enemy's strikes. It is so natural. With the barest of movement, he knows what will be the king's next action and can adjust to it immediately. It is like being one with him, as their minds understand each other perfectly after a lifetime of shared trust.

The drake dives with the strength of a thousand blast. The king thrust his spear to the ground and slashes everything in sight.

But in the end, it is not enough.

The unkindled is made of a flamboyant soul, and every time the drake wounds them, the contender succeed to arm him too. After a while, he cannot feel his limbs anymore, and he has a hard time controlling them. It makes him less agile, and slower.

He tries though. For as long as he can.

Until he cannot anymore.

When he falls, the world around them trembles and everything stops, just for a little while.

He cannot hear anything, and his vision is blurry. Cold slowly creeps up his body, and it is the same familiar cold he felt so long ago, when he was still human, wandering in the temple at night.

The only warmth he can still perceive is when there is the intimate sensation of a gentle hand on his head, _Faraam's hand,_ as an ultimate goodbye before everything fades to black.

  


**Author's Note:**

> If you wanna cry with me, you can leave a comment or come say hi on [twitter](https://twitter.com/Gallardiia)!
> 
> As a side note, pragma is a type of love that values reason, sense of duty and loyalty. It's often called the love that endures, and develops over time and maturity. I think it fits nkstein quite well.


End file.
